


if it's fate

by bibliosexual



Series: Tumblr fic [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cats, Getting Together, M/M, Monster of the Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 23:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8918332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliosexual/pseuds/bibliosexual
Summary: Of course the one time Stiles needs a werewolf, Scott is stuck Christmas shopping with his grandma, Boyd and Erica are touring colleges in New York, and Isaac is housebound with some kind of werewolf flu. And that just leaves Derek. Of course. Because Stiles’ luck is shitty like that.He’s pretty sure asking his ex-whatever to help him find Lydia’s cat would be breaking some kind of unstated rule, and he’s definitely sure Derek doesn’t want to see him or talk to him or in any other way be reminded of his existence. But on the other hand, Buttercup’s safety—and more importantly, Stiles’ safety, because if Stiles loses Lydia’s cat then he’s probably going to die a very painful death—definitely trumps Derek’s delicate feelings, so.*In which Stiles agrees to cat-sit for Lydia, but he might've bitten off more than he can chew.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://bibliosexxual.tumblr.com/post/154593165416/if-its-fate) on my tumblr.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I may have taken a few liberties with the mythology in this fic because I didn’t feel like doing much research beyond Wikipedia. Just go with it. Creative license, whoo!

Of course the one time Stiles needs a werewolf, Scott is stuck Christmas shopping with his grandma, Boyd and Erica are touring colleges in New York, and Isaac is housebound with some kind of werewolf flu. 

And that just leaves Derek. Of course. Because Stiles’ luck is shitty like that.

He’s pretty sure asking his ex-whatever to help him find Lydia’s cat would be breaking some kind of unstated rule, and he’s _definitely_ sure Derek doesn’t want to see him or talk to him or in any other way be reminded of his existence. But on the other hand, Buttercup’s safety—and more importantly, _Stiles’_ safety, because if Stiles loses Lydia’s cat then he’s probably going to die a very painful death—definitely trumps Derek’s delicate feelings, so.

It’s not even like Stiles did anything that terrible. He thought Derek was dying, okay. Derek had just fought off six hunters by himself, because he _still_ refused to acknowledge that he didn’t have to do everything by himself all the time like some kind of Batman. By the time Stiles got there, Derek was bleeding out on the concrete, doing a stellar impression of a wolfsbane-arrow pincushion, and what the hell else was Stiles supposed to think? So yeah, Stiles kissed him. Once. 

And for the record, Derek totally kissed him back—for several long, heart-stopping seconds, his hand coming up to brush Stiles’ jaw—before he fainted and the pack showed up and Stiles got shoved unceremoniously out of the way and Derek didn’t end up dead after all.

Also, for the record, Stiles had apologized. It was one kiss, and he’s said sorry, and it was three fucking weeks ago, and he doesn’t know what the fuck else he’s supposed to do to get Derek to stop avoiding him.

So basically, Derek is overreacting, and he should answer his damn door.

When he finally does, he looks wary, standing back like he has to keep the door between them or else Stiles is going to jump him. 

Stiles sighs. “Look, I’m not even here about that, so you don’t have to worry, okay? Also, you look like shit,” he adds, because Derek does. Well, it’s Derek, so he still looks gorgeous enough to be on a magazine cover, but he also doesn’t look like he’s shaved in a while, and he’s got deep shadows under his eyes like he hasn’t been sleeping that well, either. 

Derek crosses his arms. “Why are you here, Stiles?”

“So I kind of told Lydia I’d cat-sit Buttercup? Except her cat is _literally evil_ and some kind of mastermind—”

“You lost her,” Derek summarizes flatly.

“ _No_ ,” Stiles corrects, “she _escaped_. There were claws involved, Derek. And fangs. It was very traumatic.”

“I’m sure,” Derek says. 

“Anyway, I haven’t seen her in three days, so… can you just do your bloodhound thing for five minutes and help me out?“

Derek leans his forehead on the edge of the door like everything about this conversation makes him tired. Stiles is reminded yet again why he didn’t want to ask Derek in the first place.

"Cats are solitary creatures, Stiles. Sometimes they go off and do their own thing for a while. I’m sure she’s fine.”

“She’s not fine, she’s missing. And this is Beacon Hills. Do you know how many different supernatural creatures could’ve already eaten her?”

Derek scowls. “That better not be your subtle way of accusing me of eating Lydia’s cat.”

Stiles snickers. “I know you’re more of a dog person.”

Derek sighs heavily and doesn’t comment on that. “Have you already checked the animal shelter?”

“Do I look like an idiot to you?” he says. Derek makes a face like, _Yeah_. “Shut up, that was rhetorical. The shelter was the first place I looked. Now are you going to help me, or not?”

Derek eyes him for a long moment, considering. Stiles fidgets and looks away. He’s never been good at waiting, or at being stared at, especially not by Derek. Even when he knows Derek’s not into him and it’s never going to happen, it’s still nerve-wracking.

Finally Derek’s shoulders slump and he steps back to let Stiles come in. “Give me a minute. Let me put on my coat.”

*

Stiles last saw Buttercup in his backyard, so they start there.

An hour and a half later, when it’s starting to get dark out and they’ve driven practically all the way across town, they find Buttercup huddled in a culvert under a road near Derek’s apartment. She’s little more than a pair of glowing gold eyes in the gloom, and Stiles definitely wouldn’t have noticed her if Derek hadn’t thrown an arm across his chest and growled for Stiles to shut up because he could hear her now.

When Stiles crouches down and tries to pull her out, she puts her ears back and hisses.

“Typical,” Stiles grumbles, sitting back. “Fine. Be that way.”

Derek gently pushes him out of the way and crouches down, holding out a hand and looking pointedly away. After a minute or so, Buttercup creeps forward and delicately sniffs Derek’s fingers before allowing him to pick her up and cradle her to his chest. She’s even fucking _purring_ , which Stiles has never heard her do before.

“Whoa,” Stiles says, “you are the cat whisperer, dude.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, but he looks quietly pleased.

Of course, as soon as they’ve got her stowed away in the cat carrier in Stiles’ Jeep, the purring stops. By the time Stiles has turned on his car and backed out of the parking lot, she’s outright _yowling_. It’s unnerving. Stiles can already tell he’s not going to get much sleep tonight. No way he’s sleeping with that… that _thing_ prowling around his house. Derek, on the other hand, he thinks bitterly, is probably going to sleep just fine in his completely Buttercup-free apartment.

And then Stiles has an idea.

*

“No,” Derek says immediately when he opens the door.

Miraculously, at the sound of Derek’s voice, Buttercup goes perfectly, blessedly quiet for the first time in fifteen minutes and stops trying to claw her way out of the cat carrier.

“Whoa, did you see that?” Stiles says, using the element of surprise to duck under Derek’s arm and into his apartment. “She loves you, dude.”

“Stiles, get out of my house,” Derek growls.

“Hear me out,” Stiles says. He puts the cat carrier down on one of Derek’s barstools. “You keep Buttercup here until Friday when Lydia gets back from Milan.”

“No.”

“And _in return_ ,” Stiles goes on, “I pay you fifty bucks.”

“Two hundred,” Derek says, which is better than another ‘No,’ but still…

“Dude, do I look like I have two hundred dollars?”

Because Derek isn’t stupid, he asks, “How much is Lydia paying you for this?”

Stiles winces. “Two fifty.”

“Fine, then you pay me all of that and we’ll call it even.”

Stiles snorts. “Yeah, right, that’s an even worse offer than the first one.”

“Fine.” Derek shrugs. “Keep the money and the demon cat. I don’t care.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. Derek doesn’t budge. From in the cat carrier, Buttercup lets out a low growl that makes all the hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck stand up.

“Ugh. Fine. Money’s all yours.” He digs around in his wallet until he comes up with the hundred he got in advance. Well. It was nice being rich while it lasted. “Here. Just, take Buttercup away from me. _Please_.”

“No problem,” Derek smirks, pocketing the cash. “I can handle it.”

*

Half an hour later, when Stiles is flopped out on his couch enjoying the new peace and quiet and watching a Mets game, his cell phone starts buzzing in his pocket. It’s Derek.

It’s wickedly satisfying to hang up on him. Stiles coughed up the cash; now Buttercup is Derek’s problem, end of story, no take-backs. He turns off his phone.

*

The next morning, Stiles goes to wash a load of his gross cat-hair-covered clothes and stops dead in the laundry room doorway because oh shit.

When Lydia brought Buttercup over to Stiles’ house, she also brought Buttercup’s bed, feather toys, catnip, wet food, dry food, vitamin chews, and dental care treats, because she, unlike Stiles, thinks the demon cat deserves five-star, luxury-hotel-quality service. And all of it is still sitting in a neat little pile on top of the dryer.

By this point Derek has left him like ten voicemails. Stiles listens to the most recent one as he backs out of his driveway, which turns out to be a poor life decision because he almost runs over his mailbox when he hears it.

“Stiles, you need to get over here _now_. Bring your bat. It’s— I think it really is a demon— I— shit—” There’s a muffled crash and the voicemail ends abruptly.

*

Stiles is half-dreading finding Derek’s dead body and having to feel guilty about it for the rest of his life, but luckily things don’t appear to have gotten quite that drastic yet. Still, Derek answers the door looking distinctly haggard. There are four jagged, bloody, impressively large holes ripped down the front of his T-shirt.

Buttercup, meanwhile, is doing just fine. When Stiles sees her, he screeches, “Holy shit!” and ducks behind the couch, because Derek was not exaggerating. She isn’t a fluffy little cat anymore. Somehow between last night and right now, she’s grown into a cougar-sized, prowling mass of black fur and wicked claws, and she’s staring hungrily down at them with _freaky huge red demon eyes_ from her perch on top of Derek’s TV. Stiles _knew_ she wasn’t normal.

“What do we do?” Stiles whispers, and Derek shoots him a look like, _How should I know?_

It turns out they’re not in any immediate danger, though, because less than a minute after Stiles arrives, Buttercup shivers and suddenly shrinks back down to cat-sized, blinking innocently at them like nothing happened. Still, when she hops down from the TV, they both take a wary step back.

“Okay, that settles it,” Stiles says. “We’re taking her to Deaton. Right now.”

Derek, for once, doesn’t disagree.

*

“Was all this really necessary?” Deaton asks when he sees the cat carrier, which Stiles and Derek have reinforced with duct-tape, a bicycle lock, and an old length of iron chain from Stiles’ Jeep. (Long story.)

“Yes,” Stiles and Derek say in unison. Derek scowls. Stiles can’t believe Deaton would even ask them that, after what they told him on the phone on the drive over here.

“I see,” Deaton frowns. He reaches for the latch.

“I’ll be in the other room,” Stiles says faintly, but Derek grabs him by his shirts before he can leave.

“You don’t get to go anywhere when you’re at least 50% responsible for this,” he says, which is questionable, but Stiles stays put anyway.

Deaton wisely doesn’t try to take Buttercup out of the carrier. Instead, he peers inside for a minute, looking thoughtful, before closing it again. Then he looks at Stiles and Derek.

“When does she seem most calm?”

“Around Derek,” Stiles answers immediately. Then he thinks a minute. “Okay, well, originally it was around Derek. Then she decided to become a demon monster thing in his apartment. She seems pretty calm right now, though.”

Derek observes quietly, “She seems happiest when she’s around both of us.”

Deaton raises his eyebrows significantly. “I see. Excuse me a moment.”

Stiles is a little afraid the demon monster cat is going to do something when Deaton leaves, but instead, she seems content to curl up in a ball in the carrier, purring a little and looking deceptively cute. Stiles narrows his eyes. She can’t fool him.

When Deaton comes back, he’s thumbing through a thick book. “I think I know what this is. A Dola.”

“A what?” Stiles says. “I’ve read practically the entire bestiary by now, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never heard of that.”

“It’s a rare spirit of fate,” Deaton explains. “It’s native to eastern Europe, but some have been sighted on occasion in North America. They’re a bit hard to identify because they can take on a number of shapes. Cats are simply the most common manifestation.”

“Spirit of fate?” Derek says. “What exactly does that mean?”

“My knowledge on this subject is admittedly slim—” Deaton says.

“Great,” Stiles mutters under his breath.

“—but my understanding of it is that they function as something of an enforcer of human fates. Usually just of one chosen person’s fate, but sometimes multiple people’s, as I believe is the case here. When a Dola perceives that a person is resisting their proper path, it can get a little… feisty.”

“So to keep it happy until Lydia gets back, we just have to… follow our fate? Whatever that is?” Stiles asks.

“I believe so,” Deaton says. “I’d start by doing whatever seems to make it happiest, which, in this case, seems to be sticking close to Mr. Hale.”

Beside him, Derek scowls. “I changed my mind, I’m waiting in the car.” He storms out. Buttercup stirs restlessly in the carrier.

Stiles turns to Deaton. “What’s Option B?”

“There is no Option B,” Deaton says, looking entirely too serene about it.

Behind him, Buttercup starts to yowl again.

*

They agree Stiles will stay at Derek’s apartment until Friday.

The conversation goes something like this:

“Dude, I think I need to stay at your apartment until Friday.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, so you want the Dola to eat you, then, because that would be preferable to having me as a roommate for the next four days.”

Silence.

“Okay, then. So that’s settled.”

Derek stares grumpily out the passenger-side window but doesn’t say anything else about it. Stiles tries, for the umpteenth time, not to feel resentful that he has this effect on Derek when all he wants is to cuddle him a little and maybe make him some hot chocolate. (Plus a bunch of X-rated stuff, but that’s not even at the top of his list anymore, which is saying something.)

He sighs, starts the Jeep, and turns towards Derek’s place.

*

When Stiles dials Scott, Derek hisses, “What are you doing?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Relax, dude. I can’t exactly tell my dad I’m spending the night at your place. He’ll think we’re, you know… doing it.” Derek looks at the ceiling like the idea pains him. “So,” Stiles goes on patiently, “I’ve gotta get Scott to cover for me.”

“Oh,” Derek says. “Right.”

“That’ll work for one night, anyway. After that my dad might start to wonder why I haven’t left Scott’s house all week. I mean, don’t get me wrong, we are practically joined at the hip, but still. Even for us, that’s a little intense.”

He’ll just have to cross that bridge when he comes to it.

The rest of the day passes crisis-free. Stiles pulls out some homework and spreads out on Derek’s couch, and Derek goes in the back room to work out or something, Stiles doesn’t know. He tries not to picture it, both for his own sanity and because Derek can smell that shit.

After a while Derek wanders back out, looking freshly showered (and there’s another thing Stiles tries not to think too much about), and plucks a book off the nearest shelf, apparently at random.

“Scoot over,” he says gruffly to Stiles, and Stiles obligingly shuffles all his papers over to the side so Derek can sit down. Sharing a sofa, that’s progress.

Stiles nods in Buttercup’s direction. “Hey, Dola, see this? You happy now?”

Buttercup just blinks lazily at him and goes back to sleep in the armchair she’s commandeered. Stiles takes that as a yes.

They make it argument-free all the way to dinner, when they bicker a bit about what to get. Stiles wants to get burgers, but Derek vetoes that. No way is he staying in the apartment alone with the Dola, and no way are they finagling it into the cat carrier again and taking it with them through a drive-thru. They finally settle on ordering a pizza, but Derek turns out to have totally gross food preferences involving pineapple, so they decide to order _two_ pizzas.

Then something occurs to Stiles. “Wait,” he says, grabbing Derek’s wrist right before he picks up the phone to order. Derek tenses, nostrils flaring, and stares down at where Stiles is touching him.

“Okay, I’m taking my hand off.” Stiles takes a step back, too, just to be safe. “It’s just, what if the delivery guy sees Buttercup?”

So Derek calls Isaac instead, who says he’s feeling well enough to come over.

When he arrives with the pizzas, Isaac refuses to come within five feet of Derek’s front door. It doesn’t help that Buttercup has started growling so loudly it’s actually rattling the dishes in Derek’s kitchen cabinets, or that Derek answers the door still wearing the shirt with all the claw-holes and bloodstains.

Things are good after that, though. Just watching a movie and eating pizza. It almost manages to feel normal, like two bros just hanging out. That is, if they ignore Stiles’ heart-boner for Derek and the demon cat currently napping in the sink in Derek’s bathroom, which they do, successfully, for about two hours.

After that, they argue briefly about who has to feed Buttercup, but Stiles settles that by pointing out, “Last time I checked, you still have the hundred bucks I gave you yesterday, which makes Buttercup duty _your_ job.”

Derek manages to make pouring cat kibble in a bowl look resentful, which is kind of impressive.

“What about these vitamin chew things?” Stiles asks, holding up the bag. He squints at the instructions on the back, then snorts. “This says you’re supposed to hand-feed her three of these things once a day.”

Derek stares at him flatly. Then the corner of his mouth twitches, just a little, and the next second they’re both laughing. Stiles is pretty sure he’s never seen Derek laugh before. It’s awesome. Stiles throws the vitamin chews back in the supplies bag, unopened.

Things smooth out after that, at least until Stiles leans his head back on the couch to look at Derek over by the breakfast bar and asks, “What are we going to do about tonight?”

Derek just stares at Stiles’ neck like he’s thinking about things, murder things, instead of contributing anything useful.

“Dude, we are not sharing a bed,” Stiles says, because he’s pretty sure that would end embarrassingly for everyone. Like, with Stiles humping Derek’s leg in his sleep and Derek throwing him out of his apartment. Through the window, probably.

“That wasn’t even on the table,” Derek says, finally looking away from Stiles’ neck. “You get the couch. Obviously.”

Stiles scoffs. “Excuse you, I’m paying you $250 for this even though it’s turned into _both_ our problem, so the least you could do is let me have the bed. Which reminds me, why am I even still paying you? You failed.”

“So did you,” Derek points out. “And I’ve earned that money more than you have. I had to put up with the little turd for the last 24 hours, and I was the one who tracked her down after _you_ let her out.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, _I_ did not do anything, _she_ was the one who escaped—”

Things go downhill from there, but the couch/bed debate ends up being a moot point anyway because that’s about when Buttercup gets angry again and they end up barricading themselves in Derek’s bedroom after a somewhat undignified retreat.

Buttercup claws experimentally at the base of the door a few times, probably leaving some wicked gashes behind, and then takes up pacing in the hallway with an occasional mournful yowl. It’s like something out of a horror movie.

It’s not how Stiles had hoped to see Derek’s bedroom for the first time, that’s for sure.

“I don’t get it,” Stiles groans. “I’m in your apartment. We’re hanging out. We ate pizza together. What more does she _want_?”

“I’m still not sharing a bed with you,” Derek says. He sounds annoyed, but when Stiles glances at him, he looks more awkward than anything else.

They end up flipping a coin for the bed. Derek wins—“As I should, since it’s _my bed_ ”—so Stiles takes the floor.

It’s not a very comfortable floor, even after Derek gives him a pile of blankets and all the pillows off his bed.

“Dude, don’t you have a sleeping bag or something?” Stiles asks, but Derek just gives him a look. Which, point. Stiles can’t imagine Derek has too many visitors trying to sleep on his floor.

Then Derek refuses to turn off his bedside lamp.

“How am I supposed to sleep like this?” Stiles demands.

“Put a blanket over your head,” Derek suggests. “I’m not turning the light off. I need to be able to see if Buttercup gets in.”

“I think you’d _hear_ it if Buttercup got in,” Stiles points out, but Derek won’t be swayed.

Stiles gives it an honest try, he really does, but with the blanket over his head he feels like he’s going to overheat after about .5 seconds. He sighs and gives up. “So…” he says, because if he can’t sleep then he doesn’t see why Derek should get to. “Are we going to tell Lydia about this?”

Derek turns his head enough to shoot him a supremely judgey look. “Were you thinking of _not_ giving the love of your life a heads up that her cat could kill and eat her at any moment?”

“First of all, not the love of my life, and second of all, point taken. Okay.” Stiles nods to himself. “I guess I’ll be the one to break the news since as far as she knows, I’m still sole cat-sitter.”

Derek is quiet for so long that Stiles assumes he’s fallen asleep, and then he says stiffly, “I thought you were practically married to Lydia in your head.”

Stiles swallows, because they’re actually talking about this? And Derek is initiating it?? It’s almost weirder than the cat demon outside the door. He shifts to stare up at the ceiling instead of having to look Derek in the face. “Well, when I kissed you, it definitely wasn’t because I still liked Lydia. But I guess it doesn’t matter anyway since you hate my guts, so.”

“I don’t…” Derek trails off. “I don’t hate your guts.”

“Well, okay, maybe not, but you don’t like me like that, so my point stands.”

Derek shifts restlessly under the covers. “Who says I don’t like you like that?”

And whoa. Hold the _fuck_ up. Stiles sits up so fast he gets a little dizzy. “What are you saying right now? Are you saying you _do_ like me like that?”

Derek just keeps staring up at the ceiling, but he’s _blushing_ , holy shit.

“But you didn’t want me to kiss you again!” Stiles reminds him.

Derek _does_ look at him then, kind of pissy—or embarrassed? Stiles can’t tell. “You said you regretted it.”

“Okay, when the fuck did I _ever_ say that?”

Derek sighs like he’s having to explain basic math to a three-year-old. “Stiles, you said you were sorry you kissed me.”

Stiles throws his hands up. “Uh, yeah, I did, but only because you were acting all shifty and I thought you didn’t want me to!”

“I thought you didn’t want to! You thought I was dying, and you _knew_ how I felt,” he insists, which is just ridiculous. “It was clear just a pity kiss or whateve—”

Stiles doesn’t even let him finish, he just throws himself on top of Derek (who lets out a little “Oof!” of breath) and seals their mouths together.

Derek agreeably stops talking to wrap his arms around him and kiss him back. It’s a _lot_ better than their first kiss, both because Derek isn’t covered in blood or near fainting and because he’s actually smiling.

“You’re not allowed to assume I don’t like you ever again,” Stiles says when he pulls back.

“Sounds good to me,” Derek says, and pulls him back down.

*

In the morning, the cat is purring again, and she doesn’t stop all day.


End file.
